


Five times Gandalf took the Ring

by LaurelCrowned



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Pre-Lord of The Rings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-15
Updated: 2014-09-15
Packaged: 2018-02-17 13:27:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2311289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaurelCrowned/pseuds/LaurelCrowned
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>-and one time he did not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five times Gandalf took the Ring

_i._

The silence that fell over the Council was absolute. Gandalf’s sharp gaze drifted from person to person as each wrestled with their thoughts, doubtless weighing themselves in their own estimation. Elrond’s words hung in the air like a thrown gauntlet tossed before them. 

The wizard regretted his earlier protests. One of his own was to blame for this. How could he sentence another to the wounds such a quest would inflict? It should be his responsibility, no matter what might happen to him in the bargain. And if he broke his masters’ orders not to directly confront his Enemy, then it was their own fault. They should have sent one who would have cared less, loved less. He had been lost the moment he set foot on these shores all those years ago. This was only the turning of a slow-rolling tide.

The wizard saw Frodo begin to stir in his seat.

"I will take the Ring to Mordor," he said quickly, and tapped the ash from his pipe. "I know the way."

 

 

_ii._

"Here now! Give that to me, Bilbo Baggins, and be well rid of it," he said sternly. "There is an unhealthy air about it. I suspect this trinket of yours has some magical property. It may be that with this ring you could burn down Bag End and half the Shire besides, or cause any number of other accidental ills. You ought to have left it in the roots of the mountain, but failing that, it is better that I keep it safely out of the wrong hands. Including yours!"

 

 

_iii._

Living shadow and flame coiled in the darkest corners of the great chamber, each drifting tendril adding new dimensions of threat to the void beneath the bridge. The flames boiled but added no light, devouring the air itself so that he could hardly breathe. The golden band slid into place on top of Narya as if it belonged there, smothering the Elven-ring’s brief scream of agony as she was subsumed at last to her true purpose. 

The wizard’s eyes turned to molten gold as he stepped onto the bridge, towering in new height between his friends and the ancient demon. He did this for them, always for them. Everything had been for them! Without the Ring he was not strong enough to protect the Fellowship from this threat. He could not face the Balrog’s darkness and live, and surely they would fail without him. Better to take the Ring himself, just for a moment, than see them all forever lost to that fire!

Some trembling part of him was relieved that he must turn away to face the empty abyss and the monster beyond it. He could bear nothingness more easily than the stares of shock and horror he could feel burning into his back.

The turnings of Time creaked and groaned and he understood that a new work began here even as another ended. His voice roared out in a thunder that shook the world from the depths of Moria to the highest firmament.

**_"YOU SHALL NOT PASS!"_ **

 

 

_iv._

Bilbo was gone at last on his way to a new adventure, though it was likely to be far tamer and involve altogether fewer dragons.

It was a moment’s work to slip the envelope into a pocket even as he turned to face the opening door. The new master of Bag End had arrived home. The wizard quietly promised himself that Frodo, at least, would never end up feeling like _"butter scraped over too much bread."_

He excused himself as quickly as possible and was on the road to Minas Tirith before dawn. There was time. Even if he was right, there was still time.

 

 

_v._

There was no time. The tentacled thing thrashed wildly, Legolas’s bowstring hummed and the Men of the Fellowship were busy with their swords. He had been further away, already through the Doors when the beast rose from the fetid pool to snatch at Frodo.

It was the wizard himself who grabbed for the hobbit, crying out his name and catching him by the hands. But the strength of the foul creature was too great. Even as Gimli roared out a challenge, his war-axe taking off one of the monster’s arms, Gandalf felt Frodo’s hands slip further and further. Another second and he would be dragged into that dark water.

He looked up, meeting the hobbit’s wide and terrified eyes, and then he saw it. The Ring had worked its way out of Frodo’s shirt and dangled between them on its chain. Its fragile chain. 

The Ring. It wanted the Ring, not Frodo.

"Gandalf!" the hobbit cried, nails digging into the old man’s wizened hands hard enough to leave trails of blood. He had no time. The chain proved as fragile as it looked.

"Here!" he snarled, raising his fisted hand high. Droplets of blood coursed over his clenched fingers. With his other hand he drew Glamdring, the blade glowing with its own furious light. "Here, thrice-cursed filth! Meet the steel of fallen Gondolin, and your ending!" 

All motion stopped for the space of a heartbeat, the tentacles going stock-still. Frodo fell to the ground, his panting breath coming harsh and loud in the brief silence.

Then there was a surge of green-hued flesh and sucking claspers, and somehow the Ring was on his finger. There was a blinding flash of Power as the instrument of Sauron’s strength reacted to his wishes. Far louder than the startled cries of the Fellowship was the awful, inhuman scream of something large and slimy being steamed alive in a pool of boiling water. 

 

_vi._ **_\- and one time he did not._**

 

He had never seen this peaceful village in such a state. Usually it was lively, filled to brimming with cheerful conversation and activity. Dirty-faced farmers wheeled their barrows of rutabagas and potatoes, women leaned across fences to gossip, children crowded about his knees the moment he came into view.

It was full spring and nearing midday but the worn paths were empty. The hobbit-hole doors were shut tight, small windows were closed and the rooms inside were dim. He had thought he knew the hobbits’ ways, but did they have some sort of special event that would gather them all in one place? He knocked firmly on the door of one cheeky hobbit-lass he had come to know well, only to be answered with the silence that spoke of an empty home.

Wondering at the change and beginning to feel worry pawing at him, the Grey Wizard wandered down one lane after another until at last he came to the edge of town and very nearly took a tumble right into his hobbit friend as she rushed past.

"Oh!" Iris Bulgar exclaimed, stepping back in time to avoid a collision. "Gandalf! I did not see you!"

"It is no matter, my friend. Are you well?" His bushy eyebrows rose at the sight of the tear-tracks that ran down the hobbit’s round face. "What has happened?" he demanded, only to regret his sharp words when Iris flinched back. Her normally cheerful expression fell into a deep sorrow that he recognized with a feeling of dread as the kind of grief only one thing could cause.

"There was an accident," she said weakly. She swayed and reached out a hand to steady herself against him, and in alarm he sank to a crouch to better examine her. He did not expect it when the hobbit gave a heartbroken sob and threw herself into his arms, but he willingly caught her to him. He realized then how exhausted she was, her clothes wrinkled and dark half-circles underlining her eyes.

"M-my cousin. He, he -" 

But she only shook her head and could not go on. Instead, she pulled back from him and took his hand, leading him onward until they came to the large oak tree that spread its wide branches over what apparently passed for a town meeting-place. And here at last were all the hobbits of the village, all in a similar state as the young lass who pulled him forward.

She let him go and with tottering steps pushed through the crowd, seeking out a hobbit he recognized as her father and whispering something to him. While many of the hobbits were too engaged in slowly filing past the tree to notice him, each making some sort of gesture beneath its bole, some few had noticed him and were glaring balefully in his direction. The wizard stepped back respectfully, retreating to the edge of the crowd.

"Sad business, this," an extremely old and particularly plump hobbit croaked to him. He grunted and shifted uncomfortably, leaning on a small, gnarled cane.

"What happened?" Gandalf asked again, this time more gently. The hobbit sighed and shook his head. 

"We’ve had a death, mister. A young fellow, barely out of his tweens. That’s his parents there, his old gram, his brother – " the hobbit pointed with his walking-stick, listing off far more of the relations than Gandalf cared to hear.

"And that’n is his cousin. Poor thing’s still in shock," the hobbit whispered far too loudly. "He was there when it happened, y’know." Several matriarchs sniffed at the conversation and moved closer to the tree. 

For some reason, Gandalf felt a frisson of cold shiver its way down his back. He looked along the walking-stick’s line until his eyes landed on a young hobbit lad who, like himself, lurked about at the edges of the crowd. 

"Drowned, and his clan left with not even a body to bury. The river took him. Oh, Déagol," the elder hobbit said more softly, and broke into a terrible weeping. The wizard gently patted him on the back and, driven by the great well of empathy native to him, worked his way around the crowd. Moving as silently and unobtrusively as he could, Gandalf came up behind the lurking hobbit and set a hand on his shoulder.

He was not prepared for the boy to hiss like a snake and spin around, throwing off the hand as if it burned him. The wizard backed up a pace, suspecting he must have frightened the poor lad. 

"Easy, young one. I only wanted to tell you I am so very sorry for your loss," Gandalf said quietly, watching with a sad expression as the hobbit quickly composed himself. Yet even then the brown eyes darted about nervously, his fingers folding and unfolding themselves within the sleeves of his too-long formal garb that likely belonged to an older sibling.

"It was my birthday," the hobbit insisted, the words those of a person who repeated a thing as if its truth were all he had to hold onto. "I told them all, it was my birthday. It was my birthday and we were fishing. He went into the water and did not come back."

Gandalf felt his heart break. Woe that such a thing could befall these honest people! Before he could say anything in response, a hobbit woman he did not recognize came and put her arm around the lad and swiftly led him away. He hardly noticed the glare she cast at him, so deep in thought he was as he stared at the boy’s hunched-over shoulders and jerky movements.

Yes, a drowning. He could almost see it in his mind’s eye, much to his distress. Two young hobbits out for a morning’s fishing. Something happens, and –

– and why would only one have fallen in, when two were in the boat? Why didn’t the other help Déagol to safety? Where had the body gone? He knew the river branch nearby. It was not swift, nor all that deep. 

The wizard’s senses suddenly filled with green weeds, river silt. _Something bright and glinting in the light._

"You should not be here!" 

The cry was loud enough to break the stillness of the solemn gathering, and though the shove against his legs was not strong enough to knock him down, still he stepped back in surprise. A furious hobbit, larger than the others, scowled at him. “This is not your business. Go away,” he said bluntly.

"No," the wizard quickly agreed. "I should not tarry here. I am sorry for intruding. Farewell, and may your grieving bring you peace."

He turned away then, leaving them to whatever ritual helped them say their goodbyes. He made his slow way out of town. It truly was not his affair, and death was a part of life for them as much as it was for any mortal creature. They were sturdy folk. They would be all right, as would the spirit of the lost little one.

That evening he camped out by the side of the road, making a fresh-blooming patch of soft clover his bed. The smoke of his pipe wafted toward the stars. The night was warm and peaceful, crickets and frogs sang a symphony. But Gandalf the Grey lay awake until dawn and could not have said why.

**Author's Note:**

> "No!" cried Gandalf, springing to his feet. "With that power I should have power too great and terrible. And over me the Ring would gain a power still greater and more deadly."
> 
> His eyes flashed and his face was lit as by a fire within. “Do not tempt me! For I do not wish to become like the Dark Lord himself. Yet the way of the Ring to my heart is by pity, pity for weakness and the desire of strength to do good. Do not tempt me! I dare not take it, not even to keep it safe, unused. The wish to wield it would be too great, for my strength. I shall have such need of it. Great perils lie before me.”
> 
> \- Chapter 2: Shadow of the Past, Fellowship of the Ring, J.R.R. Tolkien


End file.
